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THE VALLEY OF 
THE SHADOW 


BY 

H. C. McNEILE 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





COPYRIGHT, 1924, 
BY H. C. MC NEILE 



©C1A80S881 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 
-B - 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


NOV 19 1924 


*~vA O I 


F OR the twentieth time Hilda Garling asked her¬ 
self the same question—Why had her husband 
asked Jack Denver to stay? Mechanically she 
helped herself to some dish which the footman was 
handing to her, hardly knowing what it was she took. 
Why had he asked Jack to stay? 

Such a thing was so completely foreign to her hus¬ 
band’s habits of late. For the last year or so he had 
grown more and more of a recluse, shutting himself 
away for hours and even days at a time, and having his 
meals served in his own room, until the big house stand¬ 
ing back from the Portsmouth road had seemed a 
veritable prison to his wife. Not that it was much 
better when her husband did come out of his seclusion, 
but at any rate he was a human being of her own 
class. 

She had tried asking people to stay, but it wasn’t a 
success. When your host plainly shows you that your 
presence fails to amuse him, even the most thick- 
skinned guest begins to look up the trains for London. 
She had tried going away to stay with friends, but that 
was only a temporary panacea. And then a year ago 
even that relief had been denied her. Her husband had 
complained once or twice of a pain in the chest, and 
although he scouted the idea that it was anything but 
indigestion, he at length agreed to do as she wished and 
send for a doctor. And the doctor had spoken to her 
after his examination. 


4 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

“Mrs. Garling,” he said, “I am sorry to have to be 
the bearer of—I won’t say bad, but of serious news. 
It is no mere question of indigestion, I fear. It is 
heart trouble—and it is pronounced. Please under¬ 
stand me. There is no reason, if your husband lives a 
quiet life and avoids excitement or undue exertion of 
all sorts, why he shouldn’t live for another twenty or 
thirty years. But any sudden physical call on his sys¬ 
tem—and the chances are, I am afraid, it would kill 
him.” 

“Have you told my husband?” she asked him. 

“Not quite as clearly as I have told you,” answered 
the doctor. “But he is fully aware that his condition 
is more serious than he thought.” 

From that time on she had hardly ever slept a night 
away from the Pines. For Hilda Garling had the in¬ 
stinct of playing the game very fully developed. It was 
hypocrisy to pretend to herself that she loved him: 
looking back on the five years of their married life she 
realized that she never had loved him. Like so many 
girls fresh from the schoolroom, she had been capti¬ 
vated by a brilliantly clever and handsome man some 
fourteen years older than herself. She had thought 
herself in love with him, and her parents, having in¬ 
quired into Hubert Garling’s social and financial status, 
and having found both—especially the latter—emi¬ 
nently satisfactory, had put no obstacle in the way of 
what seemed to them a very desirable match. 

But even before the honeymoon was over disillusion 
had begun to set in. That Hubert had a jealous na¬ 
ture she had found out while they were engaged, and 
then she had been rather flattered by it. But until they 
were married she never realized how fiendishly jealous 
he was. Once at Nice, as they were on their way home, 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


5 


she had danced twice with a young French officer, and 
the scene that night in their room had been appalling. 
It had blown over, as such scenes do, but it had left 
an indelible mark. It had frightened the girl—she was 
still only a child at the time; but it had hastened her 
mental development far more than a year of ordinary 
life. To her amazement she had found herself listen¬ 
ing to Hubert’s whispered apologies and love-makings 
with only half her mind. The other half was discon¬ 
certingly cold and logical. 

“This is insulting,” it said. “You may be his; in a 
way, since you’re his wife, you are. But an outlook 
on life that forbids you to dance with someone else, 
and gets furious if you do, is mediaeval.” 

As time went on it got no better. The slightest sign 
of interest in another man was sufficient to precipitate 
either a furious scene or sullenness, until Hilda for 
very peace’ sake confined her male acquaintanceship to 
the old vicar of seventy-two and the doctor, who was 
three years younger. And the absurd thing about it 
all was that there had never been the tiniest particle of 
justification for her husband’s attitude; never, that is, 
until- 

Again she asked herself the question—Why had he 
asked Jack Denver to stay? He was talking now to his 
guest in that charming, well-bred manner of his that 
had captivated so many people—talking well and inter¬ 
estingly, as a glance at Jack’s face revealed, though she 
hadn’t heard a word that had been said for the last ten 
minutes. It was incredible, impossible, that Hubert 
could know; after all, what was there to know? Six 
months ago, on one of her rare visits to London, she 
had stayed the night with an old school friend—Joan 
Prettyman. Mr. Prettyman, Joan’s father, had tactfully 



6 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

gone up to Manchester on business, and Joan had 
greeted her with a shout of joy. 

“My dear,” she cried, “in you lies salvation! Cecil 
Turnbury, who dances like an angel, rang me up this 
morning to dine and wine, do a show, trek on to Ciro’s, 
and come home with the milk from a night club. I 
know it will come to the old man’s ears if I go alone 
with Cecil; you must come, too. I’ll ring up Cecil now, 
and tell him to rope in a cheery soul for you.” 

For a moment or two she had feebly protested; she 
couldn’t dance—her husband—she must get back. 

“Tripe!” remarked Joan, elegantly, and forthwith 
rang up Cecil. And he had arrived at seven-thirty with 
Jack Denver. From the outset of the evening it was 
quite clear what was going to happen. Joan, having 
taken the possible wind out of father’s sails, devoted 
herself exclusively to Cecil, leaving Jack Denver and 
Hilda to carry on their share of the good work. And 
Hilda, starved, though she hardly realized it, for the 
companionship of men of her own age, had the night 
of her life. There are nights which stand out like mile¬ 
stones in every life, and almost always are they im¬ 
promptu. And there had been singularly few for Hilda 
Carling. But in those eight hours she realized fully 
for the first time all that she had missed in marrying 
Hubert. 

Jack Denver was thirty and in the Army. More¬ 
over, he was a man’s man all through. London saw 
him but rarely, except when he was playing polo at 
Ranelagh or Hurlingham; he found that London life 
interfered with his eye. But in addition to being mad 
on every form of sport he was—without being clever 
—exceedingly intelligent. He was interested in politics 
ntul life generally ; he read with discrimination. He 



THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 7 

could talk amusingly, and, most precious of all gifts, 
listen sympathetically. And that night, having gone 
merely to please Cecil and swearing he must be in bed 
by one, he found himself wishing at half-past three that 
it could go on for another four hours. From the time 
they arrived at Ciro’s, it had been merely two duets. 

From Ciro’s they had driven to the night club in two 
taxis—Joan, being quite without shame, had insisted on 
that. And during the drive Jack Denver tried to take 
stock of matters. That Hilda was married he knew; 
that her husband was a bit of a rum ’un he knew also 
from Joan. But there was another thing also which he 
knew, and that was that never in the course of his life 
had he been so powerfully attracted by any woman 
before. 

Small wonder. Hilda—enjoying herself to the hilt 
—looked utterly lovely. But it wasn’t only a question 
of looks; she was so startlingly alive. The stagnation 
of months had boiled over in an immense reaction. 
And if there was one thing which Jack Denver wor¬ 
shipped, it was vitality. 

They left the night club at half-past three, and once 
more two taxis were requisitioned. 

“Have you enjoyed yourself?” he asked quietly as 
they drove off. 

“It’s been heaven!” she answered. 

Which, taken as a conversational effort, would not 
have won a prize. But when the atmosphere is electri¬ 
cal, it doesn’t much matter what is said. 

“Mrs. Garling,” he went on, gravely, “when may I 
see you again?” 

By the light of a passing lamp she saw his eyes fixed 
on her, and her own did not falter. 

“I don’t think we’d better meet again,” she said, 


8 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


steadily. “My husband has rather peculiar ideas on the 
subject.” 

‘‘That, of course, is quite unthinkable,” he remarked. 
“I have never enjoyed such a wonderful evening be¬ 
fore.” 

“No more have I,” she said, staring out of the win¬ 
dow. 

She felt his hand close over hers, and for a while 
she made no effort to remove it. Then with a little 
shiver she almost snatched her hand away. 

“Captain Denver,” she said, “this is folly. I must 
tell you that my husband is almost crazily jealous of 
me. If he were to know that you and I were driving 
home at this hour of the night in a taxi alone, I think 
he’d probably try to—try to kill me. It sounds incred¬ 
ible, but it’s the truth. He becomes like a madman if 
I even speak to another man; in fact, there have been 
times when I really believe he has been out of his 
senses.” 

“But it’s preposterous,” he said, angrily. “He can’t 
keep you shut up like a prisoner.” 

“He would if he could,” she answered. 

“A truce to this fooling, Hilda,” said Denver, urg¬ 
ently. “We’re nearly at your house. I must see you 
again; I must . It may be folly, or it may not. I know 
I only met you eight hours ago—what’s that matter? 
Time has no meaning on some occasions. I’m being 
crude, too; I know that, but the circumstances make it 
imperative. May I motor over from Aldershot and 
call on you?” 

The taxi was already slowing up. 

it’s madness, she whispered, “absolute madness.” 

- - o s - - — .anarked quietly, 

as the car stopped. 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


9 


The other taxi was just behind them, and for a mo¬ 
ment or two they all stood talking on the pavement. 
Then, with a prodigious yawn, Joan voted for bed, and 
the two girls went indoors. 

“A gladsome night,” she said, sleepily. “And it 
strikes me, Hilda, my dear, that for a little sheltered 
country rose you’re a pretty high-class performer. 
He’s a pet, that man Denver; in fact, I’d have changed 
over half-way through if I hadn’t known there wasn’t 
a look-in for little Joan. Did he kiss you in the bus 
coming home ?” 

“Joan—how can you ask such a thing?” cried Hilda, 
blushing furiously. 

“Cut it out, my angel—cut it out. If he didn’t he’s 
a mutt—and so are you. Heigh-ho! bed for this child.” 

True to his word, Jack Denver drove his car over 
from Aldershot to the Pines three days later. He 
stayed to tea and talked more to Hubert than to her. 
And after tea he suggested a spin to Hindhead and 
the Devil’s Punchbowl. 

“I’m afraid an open car is one of the things I’m for¬ 
bidden,” said Hubert. 

“Then what about you, Mrs. Garling?” asked Jack. 

“My wife doesn’t care about motoring,” said her 
husband harshly. 

A truly impossible fellow, reflected Jack, as he drove 
back to barracks. Charming in other respects—but on 
the subject of his wife quite impossible. And deep 
down inside a warning voice began to make itself heard 
—a voice that counselled caution. With a husband like 
that the most ordinary everyday politeness would be 
misconstrued. And Jack Denver was quite sufficiently 
honest with himself to realize that, if he saw much of 
Hilda Garling, he would have considerable difficulty in 


IO THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


keeping things on the plane of conventional courtesy. 
In fact, as he dressed for mess that night he apostro¬ 
phized his reflection in the glass in no uncertain man¬ 
ner. 

“You’re nine-tenths of the way towards falling in 
love with another man’s wife. And that’s a complica¬ 
tion at the best of times. But, with a husband like that, 
it’s the devil. So take a pull at yourself, young feller; 
take a pull.” 

And a pull he did take—for quite a fortnight. 
Then, as luck would have it, duty took him to Ports¬ 
mouth. He couldn’t get back to Aldershot the same 
night, and the following morning he started back in 
his car. And as he got near the Pines his pace grew 
slower and slower. Finally he stopped and lit a 
cigarette. 

“Don’t be a fool,” said one voice. “Go on; there’s 
polo at the club this afternoon.” 

“You’ve played polo every day for the last week,” 
said another voice. “The man can’t eat you if you 
ask for lunch. Don’t be a coward.” 

And since it’s better to be called a fool than a coward, 
the second voice won. Jack Denver went to the Pines 
for the second time. And when he left at about five 
o’clock the nine-tenths had changed to nineteen-twen¬ 
tieths. 

Of course, the thing was a foregone conclusion. He 
got into the habit of going about once a week, and one 
day it all came out with a rush—like a stream that had 
been temporarily dammed. 

They were in the garden—the two of them, and 
something seemed suddenly to snap. 

“Come away with me, my darling,” he muttered. 
“This man is an impossible husband for you. I’ve got 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW n 

plenty of money, and I’m chucking the service, any¬ 
how. M 

He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew back. 

“Don’t, dear, don’t,” she said, a little breathlessly. 
“It’s impossible.” 

“Why is it impossible?” he demanded. “You love 
me, Hilda—I know that. And I worship the very 
ground you walk on. Why is it impossible?” 

“Because it would kill Hubert,” she answered, stead¬ 
ily. “I’ve never told you before, Jack, but I must now. 
You merely thought he was delicate. It’s his heart; 
and any sudden shock would kill him. And we couldn’t 
do that, Jack—could we?” 

“And if it wasn’t for that?” he asked, dully. 

She took a deep breath. 

“If it wasn’t for that, my man,” she whispered, “I’d 
go to the end of the world with you to-morrow.” 

And, being a white man, Jack Denver merely raised 
her fingers to his lips and left her. It was final; it was 
unalterable, and it was not for him to make it harder. 
She heard his car drive away, and she gave a little sob¬ 
bing cry. Then very steadily she walked into the 
house. 

From that day to this she hadn’t seen Jack; that had 
been all. All, that is, except one thing—the one thing 
which would have supplied the answer to her oft-re¬ 
peated question. A minute after she had walked into 
the house a man stepped out of some bushes close to 
where she had been standing. At first glance it would 
have been hard to recognize who it was; his face was 
so distorted with devilish fury that he looked like a 
fiend. For a while he stood there, his fists tight 
clenched. Then he suddenly swayed, and instinctively 
one hand went to his heart. The fury was replaced by 


12 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


agony—which in its turn gave way to relief. And 
shortly after Hubert Garling, outwardly calm, fol¬ 
lowed his wife indoors. 

That had been three months ago. And three days 
ago he had done the amazingly unexpected thing. 

They were having lunch, and he suddenly asked her 
about Jack. 

“What’s become of that nice fellow Denver?” he 
remarked. “We never seem to see him now.” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, calmly, though she 
felt that all the colour had left her face. “Perhaps 
he’s on leave or manoeuvres or something.” 

“Why don’t you write and ask him to come over?” 
continued her husband. “Ask him over for the week¬ 
end.” 

“I’ll write, certainly,” she said, and wondered 
whether he could hear the pounding of her heart. 

“The workmen are away from the tower, you know,” 
he went on; “and he seemed an amusing chap.” 

“I’ll write after lunch,” she said, quietly. 

And thus it came about that Jack Denver received 
the following morning a letter in a writing that made 
his hand shake uncontrollably as he opened the en¬ 
velope. I 

“My man ” it ran,— 

“ Hubert, for some astounding reason, is anxious 
for you to come and stay. As for me—I think I shall 
go mad if I don't see you again soon. If you think it 
unwise, plead duty as an excuse. But I think you'll 
have to come soon, or else the sudden cessation of 
your visits here will make H. suspicious. Come for the 
week-end . 


“H. Gr 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 13 

He stared at his untasted breakfast; then he shrugged 
his shoulders. So be it. And his answer was duly 
delivered at the Pines. 

“Dear Mrs. Garling ,— 

“How charming of you! I fear you must have 
thought I was dead, hut we do work — sometimes! I'll 
come in time for lunch on Saturday if I may. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Jack Denver.” 

And now dinner was over, and she was still as far 
as ever from getting the answer to her question,. Why 
had Hubert done it? All through the afternoon he 
had been uniformly charming; he couldn’t suspect any¬ 
thing; he couldn’t. He was talking now about the 
tower—a strange architectural freak which stuck up 
from one corner of the house like a funnel on a loco¬ 
motive. 

“It’s an old house,” he was saying in his cultured, 
rather gentle voice. “And I can’t quite make out who 
erected that tower originally. It was put up after the 
house itself was built, but for what purpose is a little 
obscure. It certainly can’t have been entirely erected 
as a tomb.” 

“A tomb!” echoed Denver in surprise. “In what 
way a tomb?” 

“Has my wife never told you the story?” said Gar- 
ling. “It’s one of the stock things about this place. 
I can just remember when my father made the discov¬ 
ery. The tower, of course, is hollow, and it had been 
used as a sort of box-room. There were some rough 
steps going spirally round it which finished abruptly in 
the brick roof. And one day it struck my father that 


14 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

it was somewhat peculiar to make steps right up to a 
ceiling, and he took some measurements. And he 
found that there was a space of about ten feet to be 
accounted for at the top of the tower. You can under¬ 
stand, of course, that it was very rare indeed that any 
one went there, or such an obvious thing would have 
been discovered before. So he got in some workmen 
and proceeded to remove the bricks from the roof. 
And the mystery was solved. The steps which ap¬ 
parently disappeared into the ceiling were now found 
to communicate with a room. And in that room the 
remnants of two skeletons were found. They had 
been there for at least a hundred years, but there was 
enough to prove that one had been a man and the other 
a woman.” 

“How very interesting!” said Denver. “Did your 
father ever find out what had happened?” 

“Not for absolutely certain,” answered his host. 
“But I have no doubt in my own mind that it was the 
truth. Apparently this house, at the time when the 
man and woman died, belonged to a man called Shaw. 
And Mrs. Shaw was a very lovely lady—a fact which 
other men beside Mr. Shaw appreciated. Moreover, it 
appeared that Mrs. Shaw was not insensible to the ad¬ 
miration of those other men—especially to that of a 
young Lord Greyton. Possibly she was flattered by 
the attentions of a member of the aristocracy, since her 
husband ; though an eminently worthy man, was dis¬ 
tinctly middieciass. At any rate, she and i^ord Grey¬ 
ton disappeared, and were never heard of again. Mr. 
Shaw gave out that his wife had eloped with him, and 
forbade her name ever to be mentioned in his presence 
again. But I think there can be little doubt that some¬ 
how or other he trapped them both into the room at the 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 15 

top of the tower, and then proceeded to brick them in. 
The details, of course, will never be known. Pre¬ 
sumably he must have drugged them first, leaving them 
to regain consciousness in the black darkness—because 
there were no windows of any sort in the tower. One 
thing is certain: they were not dead when they were 
put there. The marks are plainly visible where they 
had endeavoured to scratch away the brickwork with 
their fingers.” 

“What an extraordinarily gruesome story!” said 
Denver. “Why, Mrs. Garling—you’ve gone quite 
pale.” 

“I think it’s a horrible story,” she said, in a low 
voice. 

“Horrible—and yet full of poetic justice,” remarked 
her husband, sipping his port. 

“And what do you use the tower for now?” asked 
Denver. 

“My father, who was a keen astronomer, had it made 
into a small observatory. I’ve left it much as it was, 
except that I’ve removed the telescope and carried out 
a few small improvements. In fact, the workmen have 
only just finished. My father, for instance, had a 
sliding roof; I’ve had that removed. There is now 
merely a small dome with thick glass at the top, through 
which one can get a really wonderful view of the 
heavens.” 

He glanced at Denver’s glass. 

“Some more port? No. Well—would you care to 
come and see the actual room itself? And I particu¬ 
larly want you, my dear, to see it by artificial light.” 
He turned to his wife. “I think you’ll agree that it’s 
an immense improvement. In fact, I’m seriously think¬ 
ing of using it in future as my study. It’s small, of 


16 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

course—in fact, tiny. But it’s so far removed from 
any noise or disturbance. And I find, Denver, that I 
can concentrate better in a confined space.” 

He was leading the way along an upstair corridor as 
he talked. 

“I am a bit of a recluse, and I write a little. Dull, 
scientific stuff. And I really believe that in this room 
I have got my ideal working room.” 

He had reached the top of the stairs in the tower and 
opened the door. 

“Quaint, isn’t it? Those Chinese hangings round 
the walls give it a cosy effect. And then this door— 
sound-proof. I cannot hear any noise when I’m at 
work.” 

They were standing in the centre of the room, and 
Jack Denver looked round with frank curiosity. It 
certainly was quaint. Above their heads, through the 
glass dome, he could see the sky glittering with stars— 
a magnificent view, as his host had said. A thick pile 
carpet covered the floor, and the only pieces of furni¬ 
ture were a heavy desk that filled half the room and 
a big chair. The electric light was concealed just where 
the dome commenced, and threw its direct rays up¬ 
wards, giving a pleasant diffused light all over the room. 
And the walls—hexagonal in shape—were completely 
covered with rich yellow Oriental silk panels. A 
bizarre room—almost an uncanny room; yet with a 
strange element of fascination about it. 

“There was one thing I omitted to mention at din¬ 
ner in my little story,” said Hubert Garling. “From 
what small study I have made of the matter, there can 
be no doubt that Mrs. Shaw and Lord Greyton died of 
suffocation. In fact, I once made a calculation that 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 17 

the supply of air would have lasted them about twelve 
hours. This room is half the original size.” 

“Poor brutes!” remarked Denver. 

“Moreover,” continued his host, “the fact that Mr. 
Shaw was unable to watch their death struggle must 
have robbed his revenge of much of its charm.” 

For a moment they saw his face—distorted, fiend¬ 
ish; then the door shut, and they were alone. Half 
stupefied they stared at one another; the whole thing 
was so sudden, so utterly unexpected. And it was the 
girl who recovered herself first and spoke. 

“He knew, Jack,” she whispered. “He’s known all 
along. That’s why he made me ask you here.” 

Denver swore softly under his breath; as yet he had 
not realized the danger. 

“Damn him!” he said, angrily. “This is beyond a 
joke. We’ve done absolutely nothing of which we need 
be ashamed. Why, I’ve never even kissed you, Hilda.” 
He went to the door and tugged at it; it refused to 
budge. 

“Well, this settles it, my dear,” he went on. “He 
may have a weak heart or he may not—but I don’t 
stand for this form of humour. I shall tell your hus¬ 
band exactly what I think of him, and that you’re 
going to come away with me. And he can take what 
steps he damn well chooses.” 

He lit a cigarette and began pacing up and down the 
little room with short, angry steps, while the girl, lean¬ 
ing against the desk, watched him with a strange look 
in her eyes. 

“Jack, dear,” she said at length, “I don’t think you 
quite understand. This isn’t a joke.” 

He stopped short in his tracks and stared at her. 


18 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


“What do you mean?” he asked, in a low voice. 

“This is dead earnest. He means to murder us.” 

The colour slowly left his face. 

“Murder us?” he stammered, foolishly. 

“That’s why he told you that story at dinner to¬ 
night. That’s why he’s had men working on this 
tower, and didn’t suggest that you should come over 
till they’d finished. That’s why he’s locked us in here.” 

“But, good God! Hilda, the man must be mad,” he 
said, hoarsely. 

“On the subject of me he is,” she answered. 

And still it seemed as if he could hardly realize. 

“But someone must come,” he cried, angrily. “He 
can’t keep us shut in here for days.” 

She went across to him. 

“Didn’t you hear what he said as he went out ? Suf¬ 
focation. It took twelve hours for those two, and this 
is half the size. Six hours, Jack—six hours. And 
the servants are on the other side of the house.” 

And now at last he understood, and with the under¬ 
standing he became himself again. He smiled thought¬ 
fully, and pressed out his cigarette. 

“Under those circumstances—no smoking. And 
under those circumstances also—no scruples either.” 

He caught the girl in his arms and kissed her again 
and again, while she clung to him half sobbing. Then, 
still with the same thoughtful smile, he pushed her 
gently into the chair. 

“I must explore,” he said, briefly. 

First of all—the door. Coolly he examined it, while 
the girl watched him with eager eyes. He seemed so 
calm and assured—so completely confident in himself. 

A minute or two later he turned and looked at her. 

“Nothing doing there,” he said cheerfully. “It fits 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 19 

as tight as a safe door, and there isn’t even a keyhole 
on this side. It must have some patent form of lock.” 

He went round the walls quietly and systematically, 
tearing down the silk panels as he got to them. Noth¬ 
ing but smooth cement—not a crack, not a fissure. 

He stood on the desk to examine the roof. It was 
of flawless glass, immensely thick. And then he had 
to get down abruptly. He put his hand to his fore¬ 
head; it was wet with perspiration. 

And now the full gravity of the situation had come 
home to him. Mad, Hubert Garling might be; there 
was no sign of madness about this trap. It was dia¬ 
bolically efficient. It was small consolation to know 
that the murderer might be hanged; all that mattered 
was that he and the girl he loved were in an air-tight 
room, and that in a few hours that air would be ex¬ 
hausted. 

He took off his shoe and hurled it with all his force 
at the glass above his head. For ten minutes he went 
on throwing it; then with a little gesture of despair he 
threw the shoe on the floor. The glass was too thick; 
he was only exhausting himself and using up precious 
oxygen uselessly. 

“Supposing we shouted, Jack?” said the girl, quietly. 

For a quarter of an hour they shouted “Help!” at 
intervals of half a minute. No one came; nothing hap¬ 
pened. 

“It’s getting terribly stuffy, Jack,” she whispered. 

“Yes, darling; I’m afraid it is,” he answered, stead- 
ily. 

He was sitting on the arm of her chair—thinking 
desperately. Was there no way out? Was there noth¬ 
ing to be done? 


20 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


“He can’t mean to kill us like this,” she cried, in 
despair. 

He bent and kissed her gently, and she clung to him 
like a frightened child. 

And so they sat for twenty minutes or more, till 
suddenly the girl clutched his arm. 

“Jack,” she whispered, “look up. Oh, my God, look 
at him!” 

She cowered back in the chair, and the man beside 
her, strong-nerved though he was, shuddered uncon¬ 
trollably. For staring down on them from above, 
with his face pressed against the glass, was Hubert 
Gar ling. He was crawling over the smooth surface 
like some loathsome insect—gloating as he watched 
them. 

Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, Jack Denver 
seized his discarded shoe and hurled it at the madman. 
So straight was the aim that they could see him start 
back; then, as the shoe dropped harmlessly back to the 
floor, Garling’s face once more pressed against the 
glass. And he was shaking with maniacal laughter. 

“Turn off the light, dear,” sobbed the girl. “I can’t 
bear it.” 

There was a click and the tower was in dark¬ 
ness. 

“Hold me in your arms, darling,” she cried, pitifully. 
“I’m not frightened when you’ve got me close.” 

Jack Denver took her in his arms almost mechan¬ 
ically : into his mind had come an idea. Above them, 
outlined against the sky, they could see Garling, and it 
seemed as if he was beating furiously against the glass 
with his fists, enraged at being baulked of his triumph. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” said Jack, urgently. “There’s 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 21 

a chance. Just a chance. If he thinks we’re dead it’s 
possible he might come in and open the door. I want 
you to sprawl forward on the floor—face downwards. 
Don’t move. Just lie there. Then I’ll switch on the 
light, stagger round the room once or twice, and then 
fall myself. Act, my beloved, act as you have never 
acted before.” 

“I understand, dear,” she answered, steadily. “Just 
kiss me once more.” He strained her to him; then she 
lay down on the floor half hidden by the desk. 

“Ready, Hilda?” 

“Yes, Jack; I’m ready.” 

Once more the light went on, and Jack Denver stared 
upwards. Act—oh, God!—let him act sufficiently to 
deceive the madman. He plucked at his collar, and 
staggered wildly back against the desk; then he raised 
imploring hands to Garling. His breath came in short 
gasps; he went to the door and beat on it. Then again 
he raised his hands towards the gibbering, gloating 
face, transformed now with a sort of a diabolical 
ecstasy into something utterly fiendish. 

Then he pitched forward on his face—turned over, 
and lay staring through half-closed eyes at the man 
above. Had they bluffed him ? Garling’s face was still 
pressed against the glass; his eyes roamed from one 
to the other of his victims. 

A quarter of an hour—eternity—-went by, and he 
was still there. And then quite suddenly he was gone; 
the stars shone through the dome clear and unimpeded. 
For five minutes Jack Denver remained motionless; 
then, still lying in the same position, he spoke in a 
whisper. 

“He’s gone, darling; but don’t move yet. If he 


22 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


comes in, I’ll go for him, but whatever happens you 
get on the other side of the door.” 

“All right, Jack; but pray Heaven he comes soon. 
I don’t think I can go on much longer.” 

Again eternity passed: the door was still shut. He 
wasn’t coming; the acting had been in vain. Hubert 
Garling had seen, as he thought, their agony before 
they became unconscious; now he was going to make 
quite certain they were dead before he bothered with 
them further. 

And with a dreadful feeling of physical sickness 
Jack Denver realized that, though the acting had been 
in vain, it had been a wonderful dress-rehearsal. Even 
so, in reality, would Hilda pitch forward and lie still; 
even so would he tear at his collar and fight for the 
air which was not there. 

The girl had risen, and he rose too, and went to 
her. 

“He’s not coming, Jack,” she said, steadily. “We’ve 
failed.” 

“Yes, dear—I’m afraid we’ve failed.” 

“So this is the end.” 

He made no answer; only put his arm round her 
waist and held her tightly. 

“I’m not frightened, my man,” she went on, quietly. 
“I expect I’ll go first, but you’ll find me waiting for 
you over the other side of the valley.” 

He cried aloud in his agony of mind; already he 
felt as if an iron band was pressing round his head. 

“Oh, God!—if I could only get a message through 
somehow.” 

And even as his prayer went up, his eyes rested on 
the electric light switch. He’d seen it fifty times be¬ 
fore; he’d used it in that last despairing throw for 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 23 

safety; and now—he stared at it as if he’d seen it for 
the first time. Fool that he was—idiot, not to have 
thought of it before. The tower could be seen from 
the road, even if he couldn’t be heard from there. And 
it was the only chance. He turned off the light; then 
he began to signal. 

Three short bursts of light; three long ones; three 
short again. S.O.S. Then HELP in Morse. Again 
and again S.O.S. HELP. S.O.S. HELP. 

And the iron band round his head grew tighter and 
tighter. How long he went on he had no idea; time 
was measured only by the click of the switch—on and 
off. Dimly he realized that the girl had got to her feet, 
and with a dreadful look in her face was staggering 
towards him. He felt her clutch hold of his arm; 
from a great distance he heard her voice: 

“Jack —I can’t breathe; I can’t-” 

Her grip relaxed, and she collapsed on the floor at 
his feet, struggling horribly to breathe. 

S.O.S. HELP. S.O.S. HELP. 

Slower and slower the message flashed out into the 
night, until, at last, it ceased altogether. And Jack 
Denver’s knees gave from under him. With one last 
effort he turned off the light; then he crumpled up on 
the floor beside the woman he loved. 

And so they found them—two naval officers, one of 
whom, by the mercy of Allah, was a doctor. 

“My God!” he gasped, as they flung open the door 
and the atmosphere inside hit them. “Get ’em into the 
fresh air, Flags; and for Heaven’s sake—hurry.” 

“Are they dead, Doc?” cried his companion, as they 
laid the two unconscious bodies by an open window. 

“No—but damned near it.” He looked thoughtfully 
at his brother officer. “Go down and see what’s hap- 



24 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

pened to that madman below, old boy. I'll look after 
these two.” 

The Flag-Lieutenant went, to return in a few mo¬ 
ments with a face that was strangely white. 

“Doc.,” he muttered, “he’s dead. Halfway along 
the passage there.” 

The doctor got up quickly and followed the other. 
And for a while he stood looking at Hubert Garling’s 
face, that stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling. 

“Heart, Flags, or I’m a Dutchman,” he said. “The 
struggle to get the key did for him.” 

They covered the distorted face with a pocket-hand¬ 
kerchief, and went back to the living. And it was a 
couple of minutes before either of them spoke again. 

“May Heaven be praised, old man,” said the doctor, 
“that we decided to motor back to Portsmouth and not 
stop in town. It strikes me there have been some 
funny things happening here to-night.” 

“Where the devil are the servants, anyway?” de¬ 
manded his pal. 

“We’ll get them shortly,” said the other. “And the 
police, too. Don’t forget, old man, we killed that bloke 
between us. It was the only thing to do: he was crazy. 
But it’s a police matter.” 

“What is?” Jack Denver’s hoarse croak made them 
both swing round. He was sitting up, swaying a lit¬ 
tle, and the doctor hurried to him. 

“Feeling better?” he said. “That’s good.” 

Denver pushed him away. 

“How’s Hilda—how’s Mrs. Garling?” 

“Going fine. She hasn’t come round yet—but she 
will soon. There she is, beside you.” 

For a moment Denver looked at her, then he got up 
unsteadily. 


THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 25 

“I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but there’s a 
man in this house I’m going to kill.” 

The two naval officers looked at one another. 

“Steady, old chap,” said the Flag-Lieutenant. He 
followed Denver along the passage. “Unless I’m much 
mistaken, he’s dead already.” 

They paused by the body, and he lifted the pocket- 
handkerchief from the dead man’s face. 

“Is that the man?” 

“It is,” said Denver. “How did it happen?” 

“It doesn’t take long to tell,” answered the other. 
“We were motoring back from town, and suddenly we 
saw your signals. At first we paid no attention, and 
then—being a Flag-Lieutenant myself—I took them in 
automatically. S.O.S. Help. We rushed into the 
house and found that man in the hall downstairs. He 
was crazy—or so it seemed to us. Told us you were 
dead by now: and if you weren’t you were going to 
die. Brandished a key in front of our faces, and roared 
with laughter. We were on him like a knife, and, I 
can tell you, he put up a fight. But we got the key, 
and we got to you in time.” 

“She’s coming-to,” said the doctor’s voice from just 
behind them. 

For a moment Jack Denver stared at them both. 

“I won’t try and thank you now,” he said, quietly. 
“I’ll do that and explain everything shortly. But when 
you’ve been into the valley of the shadow with some¬ 
one, and come out first, it’s good to welcome your fel¬ 
low-voyager.” 

He turned and went back to Hilda Garling. And 
when, a few seconds later, she opened her eyes, it was 
into his that they stared. His arms were round her, 
and he was smiling. 


26 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 


“Jack,” she whispered, exultingly, “it wasn’t so ter¬ 
rible, was it? And we’re together after all.” 

For a moment he didn’t understand: then it came 
to him. 

“Dear heart,” he said, tenderly. “We’re not dead: 
we’re alive.” 














































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